Shades
by Cairnsy
Summary: The destruction of the final destiny stone leads to a breakdown in barriers between worlds. The Digi-Destined remain the earth's only hope, but before they can save not only their world but others, they must first try and save themselves. Prologue up.


Author's notes: This chapter acts more as a prologue, as the chapters that follow are going to be longer. Originally, this was going to compose only about half of the first chapter, but the story just seemed to flow better with the two parts divided roughly in half. The actual fic is an ensemble piece, with pretty much all of the 01/02 characters playing key roles, although some of them don't pop up until a few chapters down the line. There is possible yaoi on the way, I haven't quite decided yet *grin* 

Author's notes, take two: Obviously an AU, where the final Destony Stone in 02 has been destroyed, and the resulting chaos. You'll have to wait a chapter or two to discover the story surrounding that actual event ^_^ 

Thanks as always to the wonderful Kimague! Reviews are, as always, very welcome. 

**Shades.**

_Individual colours are merely a myth. Green is a combination of blue and yellow, pink is the joining of red with white. Shade on shade, shadow on shadow, they cease to exist if another is not present. But mix too many colours together, and what begins as a psychedelic blend of magneta and gold, crimson and bronze, begins to fade first to dull brown, then begins to become swallowed by black. And each of those non-individual colours begins to die, seeping away until all they are is a taint, and in time even that is consumed, leaving nothing behind but the blackness._

One Shade from Black.

They had never thought to light the room. Once, back when he had still maintained the ability to contemplate things that weren't numbers or codes, he had come to the conclusion it was because they had never liked light in the first place, and that the near black that the room was drenched in suited them perfectly. Not the human who inhibited it, but then, it had never been built with him in mind. 

It was only the pale glow of the computer screen before him that provided a smudge of colour on the dark palette. It had originally been all that had kept him sane, the small beacon of familiarity that was his even if the foreign languages and symbols that scrolled across the screen were an aching reminder of his fate, of all of their fates. Time had stolen from him even that pathetic piece of himself, however. He'd grown to hate the artificial substitute for colour and light, learned how it served only to mock him. The insipid grey was worse than the black, for the darker shade never promised false hopes or whispered pretty lies. 

Such pretty, pretty lies. 

He almost smashed the casing as he slammed the lid of the laptop down, smothering the small light source, muting the room into untainted black once again. 

Much better. 

Weary legs cramped from being in the same position for so long heaved themselves out of the chair that had stopped being uncomfortable weeks ago, instead becoming a disinterested numb as he had become used to the jagged angles and harsh edges. 

Weeks? Perhaps it was months. Time was not merely insignificant; it had ceased to exist entirely. What was time other than a device of measurement invented by humans? If there were no units present to mark the passing of it, then it must not pass it all. 

When he had first been thrown in this dingy room - no, cell, room implied one had the right to leave – he had spent hours running slender fingers over the coarse bricks that formed each of the four walls, searching for some form of weakness in the frame. Then, when escape had shown itself to be the improbability that it was, he had continued with his practice of touching as many of the bricks as he could, reveling in the different texture each had. He much preferred their uncompromising roughness to the cold smoothness of his keyboard, but then, there were few things he didn't openly despise about the device that he spent many hours each day in front of. 

"How much closer are we getting to everyone's destruction?" His hoarse question aimed at his laptop was ignored, as it always was. He would have preferred to have screamed the words, let fury carry them in a way the raspy nature of his voice could not. But he had realised too late that his sanity was not the only thing his isolation was stealing from him, but his ability to speak, as well. What use did one have for their vocal cords when there was no one but a thrice-damned computer to talk to? 

Too late. Much too late. The spoken language was almost foreign to him now, and he hardly recognised the words he had started to force through his own lips each day. Could one actually forget their own language? Or did he simply not have one anymore, other than the strange symbols and forms that had become his life since, since … 

"Fifty two bricks along the right side. Forty along the left. Fifty and a half wide on the opposite wall, a total of fifteen across on either side of the door." They were words spoken in a whispered desire to simply forget. "Room is approximately eighty bricks high, working with the fact that one brick width equals a certain proportion of my height and the fact the ceiling is high enough to accompany _them."_

Strange, how of all the things the darkness had stolen from his memory, he could not forget the grotesque figures of the creatures that had captured him. He had never come to a decisive conclusion over whether they were actual Digimon or other beings that had collided when the rift between worlds had been opened. There were many things he had never been able to apply any sort of coherence to, simple things such as where he was, or what had become of the others. 

"There are no others anymore," Again, a spoken whisper that no one chose to debate with him. Not the laptop, not the bricks. Not the steel door that was just as cold and as hated as the keyboard. Or, had been. He simply couldn't force himself to care about the physical object that mocked the whole idea and thought process of escape. Not anymore, when he had ceased to care about freedom long ago. He'd always been good at that, focusing only on things that remained plausible. 

There was a reason why he had not been gifted with the crest of hope. So many reasons. 

But it was because of his own crest that he was here, in the first place. Perhaps if he had been merely the holder of Hope, they would simply have killed him. 

But they would allow him freedom before precious death. There were still hundreds of pages of code to be unravelled, yet. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds … 

He had best get back to work. _They_ didn't like it if he stopped for too long. 

* 

The nightmares came that night, for the first time in ages. He had thought the muteness that the room breathed had finally seeped into his mind, numbing both memories and fears. He had fought it, once - putting a strange importance on memories of lighter times, ones where there were occasional good days sprinkled through the bad. But he had learnt that anything associated with light was a mere allusion or trick, far from safe. The last time he had seen light that wasn't forced from his computer had proven that, proven it beyond any doubt. 

It was of that day that he had dreamed about. The rare flicker of sunlight first trickling then flooding viciously through his cell, the foreign screams that surely must have come from his own voice, although his subconscious could no longer identify them. The last stubborn attempt at rebellion, a refusal to work on those damned codes for any longer. A fool's bravery, to think that they would actually kill him and at last free him from their hell, if he just simply stopped and glared. 

A fool's bravery. But it had not been the fool's blood that the sunlight had danced upon, causing it to shimmer a brilliant rouge and seem alive, unlike it's very dead owner. It had not been the fool's throat that had been ripped still screaming from a begging innocent. A pleading, scared innocent, who had no idea why they had been dragged to some cell by one of the monsters that held them all captive. It had not been the fool whose eyes had burned deadly betrayal before becoming simply dead. 

That stupid, brave fool, who was supposed to have been a martyr but had ended up a murderer. 

He wondered what it was like, to try and survive as that person. He didn't think it was possible. 

He knew it wasn't possible. 

But that was the best thing about the dark. You didn't have to exist, at all. 

* 

Less than a third of the code remained to be deciphered when he rose after several hours of haunted slumber. It was the exact same percentage as when he had allowed himself to drift off, yet still it managed to surprise him. Some weapon, perhaps made for mass destruction, perhaps simply _their_ equivalent of a can opener. He knew as little as they did, for the code was of a language that appeared to have been stolen from a different race or encrypted in a language that had been long forgotten. The importance of the scrolled letters and numbers was obvious however; the cultural significance of the forms etched in blood, a throw back to some of earth's earlier cultures. 

The blood-inked forms could have been his autobiography. 

A frown that was shrouded in darkness formed, as a muffled sound made its way through the door. That was impossible. His cell was sound proof, although if it wasn't for the slight whirl his laptop made and his own feeble attempts at speaking, he might have thought that it was not the room itself that could not hear, but himself. He startled, aged eyes suddenly growing worried as another sound filtered through. Was this some form of punishment that was about to be unleashed, an assault on senses that started small but gradually grew until the last shred of false sanity that he had somehow clung to was ripped away? This was NOT part of his routine, and anything that was not precisely part of that routine was automatically dangerous. 

His weary movements towards the far side of the room in preparation for whatever punishment they might force him to watch – always watch, for he was too valuable to hurt – were too dulled by uncertainty and confusion, as the door swung violently on his hinges mere moments later. The room instantly filled with such a toxic combination of sounds that he fell shakingly to his knees. It was the sudden inclusion of light, however, that ripped a terrified and pained scream from his throat, the punishing light that forced pale hands up to his eyes, desperately trying to protect them from the burning fire that seemed to have sunken deep into each one. Tears leaked through fingers as he curled up tightly, burying his head as deeply into his chest as possible. 

No. No. Nononononononono. He repeated the mantra continuously in his head, not caring what he was protesting against or what was going around outside of his room. He couldn't handle this, not this complexity and strangeness. He didn't understand, how could he when he had been schooled to understand nothing but code? 

"Damn them to hell," a harsh voice whispered. It took him a moment to process the voice which cut through his mantra, the softness doing nothing to contain his panic as he realised that the other person must be close to be able to speak so quietly. "Listen to me. We're going to slip something over your eyes, and then we're getting you out of this hellhole. But you've got to trust me, and keep as quiet as possible." His trembling continued, as did the harsh tears. He fought weakly as calloused hands that were obviously much stronger than his own forced his hands away from his eyes, although his protesting screech as the light was allowed to filter through again was quickly muzzled when a cool, dark cloth was wrapped around them, blocking out the traitorous light far better than his hands had. Still, he whimpered as he was swept up into foreign arms, wanting nothing more than to cringe away from the claustrophobic touch and sink safely into the darkness. The darkness was supposed to be safe, so why had it allowed intruders in to disrupt him? 

"This is no good, if he keeps squirming like this, it will be impossible for us to get out." Another voice, just as soft and just as terrifying, spoke up, causing him to slash even harder in his captive's arms. "I'm going to have to sedate him." 

Ah, the darkness began to work again, finally. He felt his limbs numb, and the pain that stained his eyes faded as he allowed them to drift closed behind the blindfold, reveling in the way the world seemed to mute again. Even the voices were far off now, normality returning. 

"Don't worry, Izzy. Everything is going to be fine now." 

And as he slipped into his blessed black, everything was. 


End file.
